When words fail, alcohol takes over.
This music takes me back to when I lived in the country and cooked a big Sunday dinner every month or two (always playing this on vinyl as I cooked), for two good friends who died within a year of each other, leaving two nice children behind - sorry, but that's the sad truth.
I would start cooking at around 11.00 in the morning, they would arrive hungry at about 1.00 in the afternoon, then - to stop them from eating the furniture - we would eat around 4.00 in the afternoon, then go for a long walk in the woods. The joys of cooking on an AGA.
I tried to relive this idyllic time by moving back into the area, the tiny hamlet of Conkwell, Wiltshire (the only spring that Cromwell did not poison when his troops were stationed in the area), but - as we all know - that is an impossibility. I eventually called H.I. for help, and I have never looked back.
I sometimes think back, though.
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